


Let's Go for a Drive

by alisvolatpropiis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Derek and Dean are buddies, Established Relationship, M/M, Rosco the Jeep, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:43:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from the delightful happyinthesilence:</p><p>Stiles and derek are in an established relationship and stiles totals his jeep. He gets hurt, minor injuries like a broken limb and stitches, and Derek hovers the whole time in the ER super worried and adorable. Bonus points if stiles is more worried about his jeep. </p><p>~*~</p><p>Stereky love, Stilinski family feels, and a dash of Destiel!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Go for a Drive

**Author's Note:**

> Another tumblr prompt that got big! Enjoy!! XOXO
> 
> Also I'm terrible at titles and I hate this title...but alas.

It’s the look on Scott’s face tells him his world has shattered around him again, irrevocably this time. Paige, his family, Laura, Erica, Boyd – Derek has lost too many people he’s loved, but he’s always somehow managed to recover. He’s always managed to put the shattered pieces of himself back together.

But he won’t be able to do it again. Not if he loses Stiles. After all, it’s Stiles’ love that keeps the jagged pieces of Derek’s heart stitched together.

He doesn’t even know what happened, how badly hurt Stiles is, but he already feels like he’s being ripped apart at the seams from the inside out, breath coming in short, aching gasps, has felt that way since Melissa called him, exactly fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. Cell reception has always been spotty out at his shop, but he heard enough.

Stiles. Accident. ER.

He broke half a dozen traffic laws to get here as fast as he could, sickening worry growing with every moment, leaving the Camaro illegally parked and storming through the hospital doors, fighting the panic, trying to hold on to the tiny sliver of hope that Stiles is okay, the only thing keeping Derek from dissolving into a scatter of useless fragments, unhinged, unanchored.

He sees Scott, standing there at the nurse’s station with Melissa, a look of anguish shaping his gentle features, smelling of sadness. “Derek, hey –”

He ignores him and continues his race to Stiles’ room, following his scent.

Stiles smells like tears and anxiety and the sour tinge of pain medication. Derek pauses for a moment just inside the door of his room, taking him in, assessing the damage to his heart. Stiles is wearing a hospital gown over his khakis, left arm rigged up in an awkward-looking sling, bandage on his forehead that smells like antiseptic and his blood. There’s a purpling bruise on his left cheek too, and a scatter of tiny cuts all over his gorgeous face, but other than that, Derek can’t see or smell any other injuries.

Something internal then.

“Babe, hey, I told Melissa to tell you not to wor–” Derek rushes to his side and cuts him off with a kiss, trying to be gentle because he doesn’t want to hurt him, but he’s desperate and breaking and he spent too long not kissing Stiles when that’s all he wanted to do and now he hates himself for that even more, for wasting what precious little time they had together.

Derek’s crying too when he pulls back, hands gentling over his love’s battered face, searching his eyes, pupils blown wide from whatever they’ve given him for the pain. “I know you never wanted it, but Scott will give you the bite. I’ll help you with the transition, I’ll be your anchor, you’ll see, Stiles, it’ll be an adjustment but you’re strong, the strongest person I’ve ever known, and you’ll find a way to be okay with it.” He’s nearly sobbing against his non-bruised cheek, hating that he’s asking this of him, asking him to do something he’s never wanted just so Derek can stay whole.

With his uninjured arm, Stiles reaches up to pet at Derek’s beard, pushing him away slightly so he can look at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “Um, thanks? But I think I’ll be able to heal this broken clavicle with regular old human powers.”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’ You’re the one rushing in here trying to convince me to take the bite like I’m dying –”

“You’re not dying?”

“No, of course not! Broken collarbone, gnarly gash on my head” – he gestures towards the bandage at his hairline – “all these stupid cuts from the windshield shattering in a million pieces because that damn deer was _huge_. But I’m fine.”

“But…you’re so upset? And Scott too?”

Stiles looks up at him, fathomless eyes shining, dejected. “The Jeep, Der,” he whines, big pink bottom lip starting to tremble. “Rosco’s totaled.” 

**~*~**

Once Derek is completely reassured that Stiles is not, in fact, on the brink of death, he explains what happened, how he had been driving home from work for lunch when a large buck jumped in front of the Jeep, leaving no time to react. Scott – whose look of desperation he saw earlier was also for the loss of the _freakin’_ _Jeep_ , which Derek tries not to be too irritated by – was with him at the time, thank god, was uninjured and able to help Stiles, who was knocked unconscious briefly when the Jeep skidded to a hard stop into a tree.

“It was pretty gruesome,” Scott says, grimacing. “The Jeep’s totally wrecked and the poor deer…” he trails off, always an especially sensitive one when it comes to animals.

Flooded with relief, Derek turns to making sure Stiles really is as okay as he keeps saying he is, tracking down his doctor and insisting on seeing the x-rays, finding a second doctor to confirm his assessment, and then requesting a third opinion before Melissa intervenes and bans him from leaving Stiles’ room and lectures him about intimidating the interns. He sends Scott to the vending machine for Reese’s and Dr. Pepper, Stiles’ favorites, and sits at his side, unable to stop himself from petting his hair, kissing his cheek, squeezing his hand, reassuring himself that Stiles is still here as much as he’s comforting him.

When they give Stiles the okay to go home, Derek still hovers over him, pulls the pain out of his shoulder when he changes out of the hospital gown, gingerly helping him navigate the sling. Stiles teases him about his  “mother hen” routine, but his grateful smile belies his sarcasm.

Derek continues to dote on him when they get home, making sure he’s comfortable on the couch in a pile of blankets and pillows before leaving him with Scott so he can go get his prescriptions filled and then to the grocery store to stock up on his favorite foods. He goes to talk to the sheriff too, who’s supervising the towing of the Jeep along with the insurance agent, who confirms that it isn’t worth saving.

The musky, visceral scent of the dead, mutilated deer, pinned between the wrecked Jeep and the tree, is heavy in Derek’s nostrils, but all he can really smell is Stiles’ blood on the glass and twisted metal. It makes him lightheaded with fear once again, the reminder of how close he came to losing him.

Derek spends the next couple of days at home with him while he rests, under protest, Stiles claims, insisting that he doesn’t need to take time off work. “I’m a librarian, babe. Not exactly a strenuous job. I can help housewives find Oprah’s latest book club choice one-handed and high on pain meds.”

They compromise on Stiles taking three days off instead of the week Derek wants him to, the argument ending when Derek reminds him that he doesn’t have any way to get to work unless Derek drives him – which makes Stiles huff and scowl and call him an overprotective asshole, but Derek is more than willing to endure his wrath – which always fizzles as quickly as it sparks – if it means making sure Stiles takes care of himself. Stiles apologizes for yelling at him, and Derek kisses him and gently pushes him to the couch, pulling the pain from his forehead and shoulder before giving him a long, loving blowjob.

He stops resisting Derek’s doting and hovering after that, but he still seems sad over the next few days, moody and distant, scent sour with melancholy. Derek tries not to think of him as pouting, but, yeah, he’s pouting.

Over the Jeep, which Derek tries to understand. He really does. It’s just that he’s never been one to attach much sentimental value to objects, even before nearly everything he and his family ever owned went up in flames. And he knows how much Stiles loved the damn thing, but it had started showing its age long before Derek even met Stiles and he’s been offering for a while now to buy him a new car, a suggestion Stiles wouldn’t even entertain.

A couple days after the accident, Stiles rebuffs him again when he brings up the idea of going car shopping, and Derek, frustrated, snaps a little. “Oh my god, Stiles! I’ll buy you another Jeep! I’ll buy you ten Jeeps and I’ll make sure every one has a cracked headlight and the stench of stale French fries and sweaty lacrosse gear! Just stop fucking moping about it!”

Stiles looks utterly betrayed – worse than the time Derek said that he didn’t think the _Star Wars_ prequels weren’t _that_ bad – and stomps upstairs without a word. Derek throws his hands up in exasperation and slams the front door closed behind him on his way out for a run.

He barely starts his normal route through the preserve before the guilt is eating away at him, turning him towards Scott’s house. It was Scott who, almost three years ago now, convinced Derek to tell Stiles how he felt about him, convinced him that confessing his love to Stiles might be able to help him recover from his post-Nogitsune depression, because it’s Scott who’s always known Stiles better than anyone.

“Have you ever asked him _why_ he loves Rosco so much?” Scott asks, sitting next him on the front steps of his house after Derek haltingly explains the fight and his frustration.

Derek hangs his head and looks away from Scott’s too-sweet-to-be-accusatory-but-close-enough expression. “No,” he admits.

Stiles’ devotion to his Jeep has always just been a part of him, part of what makes him quintessentially _Stiles_. Asking him to explain it would have been like asking him to explain why his eyes are the color of smoked whiskey, why his beauty marks map constellations that Derek loses himself in every night, why sarcasm rolls off his tongue with such ease and endearing charm.

Scott gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Go home and ask him, okay?”

**~*~**

He finds Stiles in bed reading, leaning back against the headboard on a pile of pillows, arm slung and pinned to his side like a broken wing. He still smells sad, and a little angry, but there’s a spike of relief too when Derek appears in the bedroom doorway holding a small box of paczki from the Polish bakery and a cup of coffee.

“Did you come home to yell at me more about having feelings, you robot?” He mutters, but the bitterness fades from his voice with each word, all but gone when he reaches for the coffee with his uninjured arm.

“Actually, I came home to apologize.” He sits on the bed, placing the box of donuts on the nightstand next to Stiles’ Kindle. “And to see if you want to talk about the Jeep.”

Stiles crooks up an eyebrow. “You went to talk Scotty, didn’t you? Did he go all wise true alpha on you?”

Derek smiles and nods, slipping off his shoes and moving to carefully lie beside him, resting his head on his stomach. Stiles sets down his coffee and rests his hand on Derek’s head, long fingers running through his hair. His touch is calming and he relaxes into their bed that smells so much like them, like home, listening to the strong, steady thump of his heart and his soothing voice answer a question Derek should have asked long ago.

**~*~**

_Rosco was my mom’s. She named it that, after a character in a book. Her dad –_ _Szczesny Wojtowicz,_ _who I’m named after – worked two jobs for almost a year to buy it for her sixteenth birthday. And then she worked at Dairy Queen every weekend to pay for gas and insurance. She loved it more than anything. Drove it all through college, drove it on a road trip to New Orleans with her best friends after graduation. Refused to give it up when she had me and all the other moms were buying station wagons and minivans. She joked that I was her second baby, Rosco her first.  
_

_My first memory is of being four-years old and sitting on her lap while she let me steer, rolling down our street at five miles an hour, my dad in the passenger seat laughing and taking a picture. And then every day after school she’d be there, in the Jeep at the curb, and we’d go to the park or the library. When Scott’s dad bailed and Melissa had to start working more she’d pick up Scott too, and took us out for ice cream if we managed not to get in trouble for talking to each other in class too much._

_And sometimes, when I was doing homework or when my dad was working a double shift she’d come up to my room and just say, “let’s go for a drive,” and we’d take back roads to the coast or to Hill Valley to go that arcade, the one with all the classic games? She loved classic rock and we’d roll down the windows and sing at the top of our lungs and it was just…perfect. She was always so happy, so beautiful when she was driving, you know? Even when she started to get sick._

_And then…she couldn’t drive anymore. And after…after she died…my dad couldn’t stand to look at the Jeep. Kept it locked in the garage under a tarp. Until one day, about six months after, when I was thirteen and home alone, I just…I just missed her so much, you know? I found the keys in his bedroom. It almost didn’t start and I was barely tall enough to reach the clutch and still see over the wheel, and I stalled the damn thing probably six times before I got out of the driveway but I drove around the neighborhood for an hour before my dad tracked me down. A neighbor saw me and called him. He wasn’t even pissed. Just sad. He hid the keys from me though. Gave them back on my sixteenth birthday._

**~*~**

Derek waits until Stiles’ heartbeat settles into sleep, and then gingerly slides off the bed, covering him with a blanket before slipping downstairs to make a phone call.

**~*~**

Three days later Derek stands in the junkyard, fat raindrops falling on his crossed arms as he assesses the mangled heap of what was once Claudia Stilinski’s pride and joy, replaying Stiles’ story about the Jeep over in his head. He walks over and sits in the passenger seat, brushing away twigs and chunks of glass, and even in the damage he still expects to see Stiles in the driver’s seat when he looks over.

The Jeep still smells the same, albeit with more rain and deer blood. He’d expected Stiles’ scent to have faded from it by now, especially sitting outside like this, but it’s still potent, still curls around him, comforting like always. Scott’s scent is there too, and his own.

Derek remembers sitting in this very seat, still stained with his poisoned blood, weak and sick with wolfsbane, threatening to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth but still distracted by his sweet, barely-upturned nose, his maddening scent blooming with arousal even as he feigned anger. He remembers sitting outside the hospital, trying to figure out who the alpha was, trying to figure out who _Stiles_ was, this boy he barely knew but who was missing his chance to play first line in order to help him. And again, sitting in the Jeep outside the sheriff’s station, bristling at Stiles’ hand on his shoulder because he liked it there too much, loved the obnoxious snarl of his perfect mouth when he mocked him, the wide-eyed surprise at his empty threat of punching him in the face. And he remembers giving the Jeep a jump in the hospital parking lot when Stiles was taken by the Nogitsune, taking comfort in bringing it back to life, as if that were a sign he’d be able to save Stiles too.

Derek traces a finger over the gearshift, thinking of all those times he watched Stiles’ long, elegant hand on it, how it somehow became second nature for Stiles to shift gears and then let his hand drift over to Derek’s thigh, tender and affectionate. The Jeep is where he fell in love with Stiles, he realizes, finally fully understanding Stiles’ sadness at losing it.

Or almost losing it, if Derek has his way.  

The rumble of classic American muscle pulls him from his reverie. The black ’67 Impala – once upon a time far more wrecked than Jeep is currently and now resurrected to her former glory – rolls to a stop, a familiar face he hasn’t seen since he returned to Beacon Hills smiling as the driver steps out. “Hale, you wolfy sonofabitch, how the hell are ya? And more importantly, when did Sammy convert you to his lady hair cult?”

“It’s good to see you too, Dean,” Derek smiles, shaking the rainwater from his hair that Stiles insisted he grow out, letting the handsome hunter pull him into a back-slapping bro-hug. Another figure emerges from the passenger side of the Impala, nearly unrecognizable to Derek with a dark beard and missing the trench coat he’s always seen him wearing. It’s his scent – or rather, his glaring lack thereof – that confirms that he is indeed Dean’s angel boyfriend. “Castiel,” Derek smiles. “You still perched on this asshole’s shoulder?”

“Among other places on his body, yes,” Cas deadpans.

Dean gives Derek a knowing wink and strolls over to the wrecked Jeep, whistling low and slow. “Bambi sure did a number on your boy’s baby, didn’t he?” He steps up on to one of the bent fenders and sticks his head under the crinkled hood, muttering to himself, before jumping down and crawling underneath the twisted wreckage.

“Well, Bambi grew up big because it was a ten-point buck and Stiles was going forty miles an hour. He’s lucky he isn’t dead.”

“What is a Stiles?” Cas asks, appearing silently at his side, startling him. He had forgotten about the angel’s lack of concern for personal space.

“My boyfriend,” Derek explains, that rushing thrill of pleasure at getting to call Stiles his still as exciting as the first time he said it years ago.

“Engine block’s mostly intact,” Dean announces. “The chassis is bent to shit, and we’ll have to have a new windshield custom made ‘cause I don’t do windows. But yeah, we can save her.”

“Good,” Derek grins. “Let’s get to work.”

**~*~**

Derek delays all of the other projects in his metal shop to focus on helping Dean rebuild the Jeep. They have to drive all over the state and once to Nevada to retrieve parts, and Derek ends up custom fabricating a few parts too, but Dean’s a mechanical genius as well as the hunter who spared he and Laura all those years ago, and Derek is awed by his skill and knowledge.

He keeps the project a secret from Stiles, wanting to surprise him. Derek thinks he might suspect that something’s up, and Scott almost ruins it by mentioning that Derek smells “like someone new, a dude who smells like cheap beer and apple pie and gunpowder.” Derek explains that Dean is his new shop assistant and makes a mental note to slap Scott upside the head the next chance he gets.

After almost four weeks of work, it’s done, pristine and shining with new paint, custom-ordered to replicate the now-nonexistent American Motor Corporation’s factory Ice Blue. Derek leaves Cas and Dean at the shop with a cooler of beer and goes to pick up Stiles from work, barely able to contain his excitement.

“I’ve been to your shop before, you know,” Stiles says as Derek pulls the Camaro to a stop at the end of the long driveway that leads to the converted barn he bought for his welding and metallurgy work a couple of years ago. Stiles is very suspicious, but he lets Derek slide the blindfold over his eyes anyways before he keeps driving. “What’s the big deal?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he repeats, squeezing his thigh, and Stiles wraps his fingers in his. The gash on his forehead has healed to a thick pink scar that Derek covers in gentle kisses every night, and his shoulder is still in a brace but no longer in the sling.

Derek parks next to the Impala and leads Stiles through the big shop doors, gently cradling his bicep. “Who’s that?” Stiles asks, cocking his head at the sound of Cas and Dean’s laughter.

“That’s Dean and his boyfriend, Cas. I’ll introduce you in a minute.”

“Boyfriend? You didn’t tell me your new assistant is into dudes!”

“Assistant? Oh, that’s real cute, Hale. Hey Cas, go get my wolfsbane bullets and we’ll show Derek here who the assistant is, huh?”

“And a hunter!” Stiles exclaims. “Dude, what is going on?”

Derek walks Stiles over so he’s standing directly in front of the Jeep and kisses him on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispers into his ear, pulling off the blindfold.

Stiles’ mouth drops and his eyes go huge, and for the first time since Derek’s known him, Stiles is speechless. And _still_. “Holy shit,” he breathes finally, smiling. “Derek…you found an Ice Blue, mint condition 1980 CJ-5?”

Derek smiles and takes his hand, leading him over to the driver’s side door. “No. I found a totaled 1980 CJ-5 that was covered in deer hide and deer guts but still smelled liked BO and stale curly fries.”

Derek thinks Stiles’ eyes might _actually_ pop out of his head. “What?” he squeals. “Rosco? _This is_ _Rosco_?”

“It is,” he grins. “We tried to keep everything as original as we could.” He opens the door and gestures for Stiles to step in. “It’s essentially identical to when it was new, on your mom’s sixteenth birthday,” he adds quietly, watching Stiles’ eyes start to shine as he slips in behind the wheel and gently closes the door. Derek leans against it, watching his delighted face, an overwhelming rush of happiness, pure joy, really, emanating from him, and Derek wants to preen, wants to roll around in that warm-sweet-Stiles-spice for the rest of his life.

“So how’d we do, Stiles?” Dean asks, walking up to the Jeep and offering Stiles a handshake through the open passenger side window. “Dean Winchester, your new hero. Nice to meet you.”

Still stunned, Stiles shakes Dean’s hand. “You…you helped Derek with this?”

Dean scoffs and takes a long swallow of his beer. “Yeah right, kid. I did all the work while your wolfman and angel boy over there sat around and looked pretty.”

“It’s true,” Derek offers. “It was mostly Dean.”

“Angel boy?” Stiles asks, eyebrows scrunching together quizzically, looking over towards Cas, who has his big, smoky blue eyes locked steadily on Dean’s ass as he leans into the vehicle.

“I’ll explain later,” Derek smiles, falling into his glittering whiskey eyes.

“We did make some changes, for safety,” Dean goes on, rolling his own too-beautiful eyes at their loving gaze, but smiling into his bottle. “Hale here insisted on a reinforced steel frame, which means your gas mileage is going to be even shittier than it was before. And all of the glass is bullet proof.”

“Seriously?” Stiles yelps, head spinning towards Derek.

Derek nods, a little sheepish. “Better safe than sorry. And look at this.” He points to the ceiling in the backseat, where he fabricated and welded two brackets to hold Stiles’ bat.

“He bought you a winch too,” Dean goes on, “but I haven’t mounted it yet. But this is my personal favorite, a little trick my uncle Bobby showed me.” Dean reaches in the window to grab the former cigarette lighter, popping the small metal cylinder out and tossing it to Stiles. “It’s spring loaded,” he explains. “Point the open end at the bad guy and press the other end, and blammo, you’ll get a small but powerful burst of the ‘fuck off, you supernatural nasty’ trifecta: rock salt, mountain ash, and wolfsbane.”

Stiles cradles the small weapon in his hand, smiling hugely, eyes roaming all over the inside of the Jeep. “Thank you, Dean. And Derek, fuck, babe, I don’t even know what to say.” He reaches for Derek’s hand, voice cracking.

“I do,” Derek grins, pulling the keys from his pocket. “Let’s go for a drive.”

**~*~**

Stiles drives them to the coast along winding back roads, windows down, classic rock station cranked up, both of them smiling and singing the whole time. It’s dark by the time they get there, pulling to a stop on a secluded bluff overlooking the high crashing tide, moon almost full and hanging heavy over the water.  

“Dance with me under the stars,” Stiles orders, turning the music up more. Derek obeys and goes to meet him in front of the Jeep, headlights glowing around their legs as he pulls him into a close embrace, careful of his still-healing shoulder. Stiles wraps his arms around his waist and buries his face in his neck, kissing him lightly, making his skin shiver. They sway gently to The Beach Boys’ “[God Only Knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWVIDXQ0LBA#t=11)” filtering from Rosco’s new speakers through the cool ocean breeze, Stiles singly softly in his ear.

“I wish I could have known her,” Derek whispers into his hair. “Your mom.”

“Me too,” Stiles says, pulling back a bit to meet his eyes. “She would have loved you.”

“You think so?” He asks, hopeful.

Stiles kisses him softly, mouth warm and supple. “Of course she would have,” he answers, giving him a breathtaking smile. “You rescued her baby. Both of them.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [Tumblr!](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
